


All the Days of My Life

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Religious Themes & References, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings knows that Poirot is worried about something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Days of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Series: This story is in the same universe as my other Poirot stories. Brief crossover with _Jeeves and Wooster_.
> 
> Further notes are at the end so as not to spoil the story.

The day started as many a day often has. I woke feeling rather inclined to play, and although I discovered that Poirot was still asleep, I decided to act on that inclination. A gentle kiss to his neck did nothing to rouse him. I drew my fingers lightly along his hip, and although he murmured appreciatively in his sleep, he did not wake. However, his physical reactions told me that my touch was not unwelcome. I ducked under the covers. We were still naked from our exertions the night before, and there was nothing to stop me from my goal. I took his erection in hand, and pressed my lips to the sensitive tip.

I almost laughed when I heard him cry, " _Sacré_!" The covers were roughly tossed from over me, and I could then see Poirot's dazed expression.

"Something wrong, Poirot?" I asked as innocently as I could.

" _Mon dieu_ , Hastings," Poirot murmured.

I laughed gently, and kissed his hip before returning to his erection. I enjoyed giving pleasure in this manner, and I used all my skill to determine what Poirot liked. When I took him deeply into my throat he cried out again, his hand tightening ever so slightly in my hair. I loved hearing him speak during our lovemaking, and hummed appreciatively in response. When he peaked, I gladly swallowed all of him.

When he was finished, I curled up against his body, feeling quite pleased with myself.

Poirot was panting softly, and I stroked his stomach, waiting for him to calm. "You are going to kill me one of these days, Hastings," Poirot murmured before kissing me most thoroughly.

"Is that a complaint?" I asked, amused.

Poirot laughed lightly, and replied, "Not at all, _mon chou_ , but you must take pity on an old man."

Poirot's hands were slowly stroking my body, and I hummed in encouragement, wanting them to go lower. "Old man, my eye, Poirot!" I said before I kissed him.

Poirot can be a merciless tease, but on this morning he was just as eager as I. We continued to kiss as his hands stroked and tease, but soon he was stroking my erection. Poirot has such fine hands, so broad and strong, but also elegant and clever. He knew exactly where to touch me in order to enflame my passions further. I threw my head back in response to one particular cork-screw twist, whimpering softly his name, and his lips pressed to my collar bone, nibbling and sucking gently. As I felt myself fall closer to the edge, I murmured his name again and gazed into his dark eyes.

" _Oui, mon ami, jouis_ ," Poirot murmured, and I could not disobey him.

My eyes finally closed for a moment as I peaked. Poirot held me close, his hands coaxing more pleasure from me until I was spent and exhausted. I rested against him, head on his shoulder.

"Perfection," I said softly, and Poirot murmured his agreement.

 

Our day began soon after with a shower and breakfast. We almost always managed to be in the sitting room before Ms. Lemon arrived. Poirot insisted that everything should be proper, and I agreed, although sometimes I forgot myself or the time or that one more kiss usually led to further delights. In short, we were both happy with our understanding.

However, over the past few weeks I slowly realized that something was bothering Poirot. I had little idea what the problem was, and Poirot was unwilling to speak on the matter. As the morning had shown, our lovemaking was not suffering and I still adored him completely. It could have been my imagination, which Poirot has often described as _un peu vive_.

It was with these unhappy thoughts in mind that I returned to the flat after a pensive couple of hours at my club. I entered the foyer, still thoughtful and thus with less than usual amounts of noise. I looked in the sitting room to see whether Poirot was in or not, and saw Poirot looking with seriousness at something in his hands. I was about to step in and ask if he was on a case, when he raised his hands and I saw what was in them.

I was aware that Poirot had been raised Catholic, but until this moment I had thought little of it; I myself was raised Anglican, but religion had played so small a role in my life that I gave it little consideration. I was aware that inversion was considered a sin, but I was more concerned by the illegality and social stigma than with any eternal damnation. I realized that I had no idea what Poirot's own thoughts were on the matter. Did he worry about his soul? Did he consider what we were and what we did a sin?

Rather than confront Poirot on the matter, I turned to Ms. Lemon's office. She was reading the paper, but she looked up as I entered. "Anything interesting?" I asked, lacking anything else to say.

No doubt she could see that something was wrong, but she simply said, "Porcupine oil stocks have gone down five percent."

"Well, jolly good then that we didn't invest in them."

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. I looked out of the small glass window that faced Poirot's desk, and noted that Poirot now looked engaged in work. I felt relief tinged with nervousness. Was he hiding something from me?

"Captain Hastings?" Ms Lemon said.

"Is Poirot working on a case?" I asked her.

"Not that I am aware of," she replied.

"Oh," I said, disappointed.

After a moment, Ms. Lemon said, "What is it, Captain Hastings?"

"What is what?" I said, trying to act as if there were nothing on my mind.

"Why are you avoiding Mr. Poirot?"

I was about to brush away her question when she narrowed her eyes at me. Ms. Lemon has a way of looking at a man as if she could see inside of him and learn all the things he is thinking. My shoulders dropped in defeat. She was the only one I could turn to, and though I hesitated to discuss with her a matter so delicate – she was a lady, after all – I trusted her in all matters.

"Something is bothering Poirot," I said softly so that Poirot would not overhear my words.

"Yes," she said slowly, putting down the newspaper. "I was wondering if it was just my imagination."

I smiled in relief, and said, "Well, I'm glad that it wasn't just my own going wild." Poirot had stated frequently that Ms. Lemon possessed no imagination, so if she saw Poirot's agitation, then we must both be right.

"Have you two had an argument?" She asked. "Worn scuffed shoes, perhaps, or left your camera in the bathroom again?"

I grimaced. Yes, that had started quite an argument. "Not this time." I paused, wondering if I should continue with a potentially inappropriate conversation. "He was studying his rosary beads just now."

Ms. Lemon's expression became sympathetic. "I see," she said. "I'm sure it's nothing, captain. He's very happy."

"I hope so," I said, looking back out of the window.

 

Over the next several days I watched Poirot for any sign that he was beginning to regret our understanding, but I could see none. Poirot became once more immersed in a case, and I assisted as I always did. Our nightly activities were only curtained when we had to stay overnight at a country inn, but otherwise Poirot's attentions altered in no way. I ought to have been happy and content with this state of affairs, but I could not forget Poirot's meditation upon his rosary.

After the case was finished, we returned home late in the evening. Poirot sorted through the correspondence while I went to the fireplace to turn on the lamp. Poirot's rosary beads where on the mantle, and I picked them up, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Lord Wollery has finally decided to converse with me," Poirot said as he entered the room, but he stopped when he saw me. "Hastings?"

"I saw your beads on the mantle and was curious," I said, holding them up. "I hope I haven't… um… ruined them."

" _Non_ , you may inspect them if you wish," Poirot said, putting down the mail on his desk before standing next to me. "They were my father's," Poirot added, his fingers brushing against mine as I looked at the beads.

"Your father's?" I asked, intrigued despite my worry about other matters. Poirot rarely spoke about his family, and I was eager to know more about him and his background.

" _Oui_ ," Poirot replied. "They have been in the family for several generations."

I smiled, glad that my friend had something of his family because it must have made fleeing his homeland a little easier. However, when I looked up, that seriousness was once more upon Poirot's face.

"Poirot," I said, concerned.

Poirot gave me a questioning look, and I said softly, "What is wrong?"

"Wrong, _mon ami_?"

"Yes. Something is bothering you, and I would like to know what it is." I hesitated, and then asked, "Have I done something to offend you?"

Poirot sighed softly, and shook his head. " _Non_ , you have not."

I could tell from his expression that he was sincere, but there was some hesitation within his lovely brown eyes. "Then is it about our understanding?"

Poirot was silent for a few moments, and then he said, "Come, Hastings. Let us rest ourselves. I shall pour us a drink."

He motioned for me to sit down, and I did so reluctantly. My stomach was churning painfully as I imagined all sorts of scenarios, and I knew that I would do anything to keep myself by Poirot's side. I merely needed to know what he wanted.

Poirot handed me my scotch, and then sat next to me with his liqueur. "Poirot," I said, but Poirot lifted his hand and I lapsed into silence.

"I do not wish to distress you with my thoughts, _mon chou_ , so calm yourself."

I nodded, and took a sip of my scotch. I knew, however, that my worry would not dissipate until I knew what his thoughts were.

"I have been exercising the little grey cells these past few weeks," Poirot said, one of his hands resting on the beads lying on the settee between us.

"About us?"

"Yes."

"Why? Surely everything is as it should be. I have been happier here with you than I ever have been before, Poirot," I said.

Poirot smiled proudly, and took my hand. "I am pleased to hear you say so, Hastings, but everything is not as it should be."

I was confused, and I know that I must have looked it. "Isn't it?"

Poirot looked at me, his curiosity clear. "Do you not worry about, how do you say, 'living in sin'?"

So he was worried about sin and his soul. I felt myself grow fearful. How long before he decided that I was not worth his soul?

"But Poirot, some doctors now suggest that it is natural and not shameful at all."

Poirot blinked, and I could tell that I had just said something that he did not expect. " _Comment_?"

"Well, that love for one's sex is natural and not a deviance or a sin."

Understanding filled Poirot's eyes, and he said briskly, "That does not concern me at all, Hastings. Of course it is natural."

"Oh," I said, relieved by Poirot's words, but now even more confused. "Then what…?"

"No, _mon cher ami_ , I am concerned that we are living as one, and yet we are not married."

I was startled by Poirot's words. "Oh. Well, I… oh."

"Yes. 'Oh', Hastings. My family would be most disappointed if they knew."

I was silent for a moment as I thought about what Poirot had just said. Poirot had been worried all this time because we were living together as, well, a married couple, and yet we were not married. I wondered why Poirot had worried so much because there seemed to be an easy solution.

"Well, then we should marry," I said, squeezing his hand.

A mixture of expressions crossed Poirot's face: delight, joy, love, concern, and perhaps a hint of fear. "You will marry me?"

"Of course," I replied, putting as much feeling as I could into the statement. "Poirot, sometimes you really do ask the most foolish questions." I put down my drink, relieved him of his drink, and proceeded to kiss him with all the frustrated passion that I felt.

After several kisses, I snuggled into Poirot's arms, delighted that Poirot loved me enough to marry me. I was unsure, however, how we would manage such a feat without bringing ruin upon ourselves.

Poirot must have been thinking similar thoughts because he said, "Now we must decide how best to accomplish this."

 

Of course we could not get married in a church or declare our engagement in the papers, but Poirot was determined to do things properly. Over the years Poirot had engaged in a regular correspondence with Silvain Guerrier who had trained as priest but left the priesthood due to frustrations with church bureaucracy. Poirot trusted him, and decided to ask him if he would officiate the wedding and do so in a manner as close to Catholic custom as possible given our unconventional relationship. I was a bit disconcerted to learn that one of the reasons why Poirot trusted him was because they had been "friendly" with each other.

"Why do you think he decided that the celibate life was not for him, _mon cher_?" Poirot said with a laugh. "Bureaucracy was not the only frustration."

"Poirot!" I cried, scandalized.

There were very few friends whom we could ask to attend. I invited Jeeves, but his response was disheartening. He said that we were taking an unreasonable risk. I mentioned Poirot's religious beliefs, and after a scornful response from Jeeves, I hung up. I briefly contemplated asking Bertie because I suspected that he would love to attend a wedding and would bring Jeeves with him, but I did not wish for Jeeves' disapproving presence. And besides, a simple careless mention to Poirot that I had invited Jeeves was revenge enough for having our wedding conducted by one of Poirot's former paramours.

Poirot invited Ms. Lemon to attend, and I decided to ask Inspector Japp. During one of our weekly visits to the local pub, I asked him if he would mind being my best man. After I thumped his back several times to help him through his coughing fit, he told me he would consider it. The next morning, he responded with a telegram that said, "I would be honored."

 

I had not been to Belgium for a number of years, and it was fitting that I should return with Poirot since it was here we first met. On the morning of our wedding, I was nervous and also suffering slightly from the somewhat subdued stag night in which Japp insisted I participate. It had been just myself and him; we walked to a nearby pub and had several beers, and then stumbled back to the hotel after the pub had closed.

Ms. Lemon was attending to me this morning at Poirot's insistence because he did not trust Japp with my preparations. Ms. Lemon made sure that I was dressed to his impeccable standards. I looked in the mirror, and marveled at the man I saw. "I am about to be married!" I said to myself, still slightly stunned by the thought.

"You look very handsome, captain," Ms. Lemon said, tugging once more at my boutonniere. I smiled at her, shaking ever so slightly with nerves.

She looked at me with sympathy, and said, "It will be all right, Captain Hastings."

"I know, Ms. Lemon," I replied. "I just… want this to be perfect for Poirot."

"It will be," she replied, brushing at my shoulder.

"I love him," I replied softly, feeling a bit self-conscious about my words, but my need to say them was too great.

I was startled to see the gleam of tears in Ms. Lemon's eyes. She then surprised me further by hugging me tightly. I returned her embrace, holding her close. My sisters would not have wished to be here, but I did not care. Ms. Lemon was a far superior substitute.

Ms. Lemon sniffed as she pulled away, and I smiled at her. She said as she dried her eyes with her handkerchief, "If I could find someone who loves me half as much as you love Mr. Poirot, Captain Hastings, I would be a lucky woman."

I blushed a bit at her words, but I felt a swell of deep affection for her. When Poirot first introduced us, I was jealous of how highly he sung her praises, but that jealousy quickly faded away as we became friends and confidants who were each in our own way devoted to Poirot, his finicky nature, and his need for mental activity.

I thought about all of this as we made our way to the chapel. It was still early, and there was no one else present but the five of us. Guerrier, the clergyman, promised us that we would be undisturbed.

Inspector Japp cut a surprisingly handsome figure in his tie and tails, and I smiled when I saw Ms. Lemon wink at him. My attention turned to Poirot, and I was certain that I had never seen him look as handsome as he did on that day. He took my hand, and murmured, "Good morning, _mon ami_." I was gratified to note that he was equally affected by my presence.

We turned to the clergyman. Inspector Japp and Ms. Lemon stood to either side, waiting for the ceremony to begin. I had never been to a Roman Catholic wedding ceremony before, and Poirot carefully instructed me on what would happen and quizzed me on the journey there.

I listened to Guerrier read passages from the Bible while my thoughts returned to the past few months. Poirot was cheered by my desire to marry, and much of his time was spent preparing for the wedding. I merely did as he requested: attended fittings, ate the various recipes he wished to try out, and studied the complicated Catholic ceremony so that I would not embarrass us both. We decided to pick out our own rings, however, because it would have looked odd if we had gone together or if we asked for a man's ring in a size not our own. It would be a surprise for us both to see what type of ring the other had chosen.

Thankfully neither Guerrier nor Poirot balked when I decided against celebrating Mass. I was more than willing to indulge in Poirot's need for a Catholic ceremony, but I had no desire to convert to Catholicism. I respected religion, but as I have written earlier, I was not very religious.

I returned to my thoughts as Guerrier began the rite of marriage, and I could not stop the trembling of my hand as I listened to him discuss "mutual and lasting fidelity." I did not need a ceremony to prove my fidelity to Poirot, but I would gladly give Poirot whatever proof he wanted.

At last Guerrier said, "Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church."

We joined our right hands, and I gazed into Poirot's lovely eyes, well aware that now was the absolute moment beyond which I would never be the same. After this, I would never be alone again. I was horrified to find myself close to tears as I listened to Poirot say his vows. I then repeated the vow, and I was proud that my voice was strong and sure.

"I, Arthur Hastings, take you, Hercule Poirot, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

I spied a suspicious gleam of moisture in Poirot's eyes, and I could hear Ms. Lemon discretely sniffle in the background.

"You have declared your consent before the Church," Guerrier said, his voice wavering a bit with emotion. "May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide."

"Amen," the four of us said in unison.

"The rings?" Guerrier asked. Japp had my ring, and Ms. Lemon had Poirot's. After they each relinquished the rings, the priest began the blessing.

"Lord, bless these rings which we bless in your name. Grant that those who wear them may always have a deep faith in each other. May they do your will and always live together in peace, good will, and love. We ask this through Christ, our Lord."

Guerrier gave to me Poirot's ring, and I smiled when I saw what he had chosen. A blue topaz stone was set in the center and surrounded by much smaller diamonds which were clear but looked blue due to their proximity to the topaz. It was stylish and suited my friend to perfection.

I smiled as I said, "Hercule Poirot, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

I interrupted the plan of the ceremony for a moment in order to kiss his hand, and then slipped the ring on his finger.

Poirot squeezed my hand appreciatively, and then received my ring from the clergyman. I spent ages looking for a ring that I felt would be appropriate for the occasion. I had nearly despaired until nearly a week before the ceremony I found the perfect ring. It was a simple wide band with a line of interweaving obsidian and diamonds. I had nearly passed it by, but then the jeweler turned the box and what had been a plain ring showed extraordinary depth.

Poirot said, "Arthur Hastings, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

I felt an unusual sense of peace as Poirot slid the ring onto my finger. I knew that we could not tell anyone what had happened on this day, but in our eyes we were married and could never be parted.

"You may now exchange a kiss," Guerrier said, and we exchanged a light kiss, although I did wish for more.

I can barely remember what happened during the concluding rite and the official dismissal, but after the final "amen", Ms. Lemon kissed us both on the cheek and Japp shook our hands.

The five of us then retired to a private room in the hotel where we had a hearty lunch. I had been unable to eat much for breakfast on account of my nerves, and so I was ravenous. The food was delicious, and we complimented Poirot on his choices.

Poirot and I had hired a cottage in the countryside for our honeymoon, and we were to leave soon after lunch. As a thank you, we offered to put up the rest of our party for a second evening in the hotel so that they would not be forced to return so soon after they had arrived on our behalf.

They waved us off, and I drove the hired car to our home for the next two weeks.

At the threshold we stood, and I asked, "Should one of us carry the other over the threshold?"

Poirot gave me a look which I had little trouble interpreting. "Would you kindly open the door, Arthur?"

"Of course, Hercule."

And so began our honeymoon.

**Author's Note:**

> French vocabulary
> 
> Jouir – Enjoy. (col. sexually) Come. (It sounds nicer in French, doesn't it?)
> 
>  
> 
> Note: I have never been to a wedding or any sort of Catholic ceremony. I have done some research about Roman Catholic wedding ceremonies, and they are still a mystery to me. I apologize for any mistakes.  
> Sources 1: hxxp://catholicweddinghelp.com/topics/order-wedding-outside-mass.htm and hxxp://catholicweddinghelp.com/topics/text-rite-of-marriage-mass.htm  
> Sources 2: Excerpts from the English translation of Rite of Marriage are copyright © 1969, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc. All rights reserved.


End file.
